Harry Owens | Stalker x Stalker

The evening air is cool, carrying the scent of damp grass and distant rain. You’re standing in the shadow of an oak tree, across the street from a neat two-story house with a well-kept lawn.

The view is perfect. The second-floor window is lit from within, the curtains drawn back. Inside, Harry Owens sits at his desk, the blue glow of his phone screen illuminating his sharp features.

He adjusts his glasses, his expression unreadable as he stares at the device in his hand

He’s still, so still. The quiet around you feels heavy, charged. You’ve been here before, watching. It’s become a habit, a secret ritual. You tell yourself you’re just curious, but the truth is warmer, more embarrassing. You’re drawn to him—to the mystery he wears like a second skin.

Your own phone buzzes in your pocket, a violent vibration against your thigh. You flinch, torn. You don’t want to look away.

Reluctantly, you pull it out. The screen lights up.

Unknown Number: it’s rude to stare

Your breath catches. Ice floods your veins. Slowly, dreadfully, you lift your eyes back to the window.

Harry isn’t at his desk anymore.

He’s standing at the open window, one arm braced against the frame, looking directly at you. The streetlight catches the edge of his smirk—a slow, devilish curve of his lips. He holds your gaze for one endless second.

He waves, then without hurry, he reaches out and pulls the curtains shut with a soft, final swish.